


from many, one

by ginger_green



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Romantic Tension, custom sole survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25337962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_green/pseuds/ginger_green
Summary: Preston Garvey fears the dark. But he's not the only one.
Relationships: Preston Garvey/Sole Survivor
Kudos: 10





	from many, one

Preston fears the dark.

He cannot sleep well without a light, a single candle or a winking lightbulb above his bed (kindly provided by the General). The night of the Wasteland is pitch black and silent as a grave. In this emptiness his mind is flooded with intense flashes, like bursts of electric shock: He sees the red of lasers, the metallic shine of armor. He hears the cries. His body tenses up until it aches.

He stays sharp. It won't let go.

The broken clock was showing 4:37 as always. When Sturges asked if it needed fixing, Preston laughed. "Don't bother. At least it's right twice a day." But right now, in the dark, the motionless device unsettled him. He sighed deep and stood up. No use trying to sleep. Won't hurt to make another round.

Just as he walked out his sensitive ears caught a muffled noise in the building across the street.

"Preston?.. What's that sound?"

The door frame behind him lit up with a dim flash. Sturges yawned and winced, glancing into the night with wary eyes. Seeing him was relaxing.

"It's okay, Sturges. Probably roaches or something, but I'll go check it out just in case."

"Right. Be careful out there."

The light ceased to shine as Sturges disappeared back into the house. Preston squeezed his musket, treading softly upon the leaf-covered asphalt. The house stared at him with its broken windows, as dark as the sky above. He made a deep breath and stepped inside.

No sound or movement was detectable within. An old TV stood in the corner, and a few armchairs circled it like a herd of sheep. The counter was old and stained. Preston looked around and moved slowly towards the corridor, stopping and listening every few steps. For a minute he couldn't hear anything, but then the noise came again - soft and desperate as if coming from beneath the ground, stuffed up by mud.

Sobbing.

Preston lowered the musket. The room on his right evinced dimmed springing light. He leaned against the wall to peek inside while still concealed by the shadows.

It used to be a child's room. An antique dresser, half-opened, revealed a stack of tiny shirts that over the years have rotten and almost turned to dust. In the corner stood a crib with a spinner of joyous scarlet rocketships. And beside it lay a curled shadow which Preston has learnt to recognize and avoid aiming at in the heat of battle.

He stood completely still for a moment, not knowing if he should intrude. But then the muffled sobbing came again and it ripped at his chest with tiny claws in a way he knew too well. He was a tender and softhearted man, and could not stand the suffering of another.

Especially hers.

She didn't move when he rustled over to that small crib, when he stood upon her and looked down - but she held her breath and swallowed the silent cry. A small betrayal. Doesn't she know that of all people he'd never judge her for crying?

"Was this your house?"

She sat up and hugged her knees, suddenly withered into a child herself, and his hand reached on its own toward her shoulder.

"Y-yeah... Yeah. We... we bought it a year before... before the War. My husband, Nate--he was so proud."

"I bet it was a bargain."

Her laughter came out broken and she leaned forth in a feat of cough, spitting out tears. Preston sat down and patted her on the back until the coughing stopped.

There was a knot in his chest since they met in Concord, an uneasy but unyielding hope, something he at his young age mistook for gratitude that slowly shifted into loyalty and admiration. But looking at her now, small and sad and broken, he felt like he could reach through time and see that Fahire, the one with shining eyes and motherly habits, cooing at her son in this very crib, the distant picture of an American housewife he knew from the burnt magazines and mall posters. And he wished he could bring her back, gift that old life to this burnt, scarred woman who couldn't cry, who missed her child and husband so much it hurt, who was his General and friend and role model.

But he was one man and ruled naught. All he could do was sit here and hope it was enough.

The light flickered upon her dark, warm, freckled cheeks.

"What was he like? Your husband, I mean."

She sobbed. Her fingers ran across the golden band on her left hand.

"He was a soldier. Strong, but caring. I think--I think Shaun had his eyes." Her lips curved in a bitter smile. She lowered her head on Preston's shoulder, the heat of her body pressed firmly against his arm. "Funny. The more I think of it, the less I can remember. Like it was all a dream... but then it never ended. Just turned into a nightmare."

The draft caressed her shoulders and she shivered. Preston sighed; he wasn't really the hugging type. He wrapped his arm around her, feeling the blush rise in his cheeks. Cuddling with a recent widow (who was also two hundred years older than him) felt both inappropriate and comical.

 _But she needs me,_ he argued. _She needs someone to tell her it's going to be okay. If not me, who else?_

"I hate it here, Preston," she confessed, warming herself in his embrace. "I hate this world and everyone in it. I hate the raiders, the Brotherhood, the settlers - everyone!"

"Everyone, General?" He chuckled.

"Alright, _almost_ everyone. Smartmouth."

They sat in silence for a while, caught in a strange state of relaxation. The dark did not frighten Preston anymore. Perhaps the thought of someone else being burdened by it was a relief. Misery does love company after all.

"I know it's not perfect. But there are still good people out there. And never you forget - you're one of 'em."

"I don't know, Preston. Sometimes I feel like a poor substitute. Like I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Then we would've never made it out of that museum. And the Minutemen would never have come back... and I would've never met you."

The last part came out of his mouth before he lived to regret it. He froze, too aware of his mistake, too confused and taken by the realization he just made. He could feel her eyes trace him in surprise and almost hear the rejection that would surely follow, along with a shove and a cold, empty spot where her body was.

Only it never did. Because she laughed. Tears still glimpsed in her eyes, but she laughed with her raucous crisp voice, a little too sharp, a little too brutal for that pristine image of an American housewife he'd been thinking of.

"Jeez, Preston! You really got me there for a second."

He made sure she didn't notice the sigh of relief as his tension eased with a slight touch of regret. Thank God.

"I thought it might cheer you up, General."

She did shove him after all, but in a friendly manner.

"I'll stop waxing now. I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

"I don't mind. In fact, I've been meaning to ask you... if that's alright... what was it like, living before the War?"

Another sting of regret. Her eyes trailed off again and her smile became bleak. He scolded himself for the childish curiosity; she was not a relic to be studied and probed.

"It was different. And the same. We had our share of troubles and didn't appreciate what we had." She reached to the spinner, looking through her spread fingers like a dreamy stargazer. "Had I known I wouldn't have clean water, I sure would've showered more."

"The pump is working well. Pretty sure it's safe to take a bath."

"Hm. Coming soon - the only clean woman in Boston!"

"You used the only bar of soap we found, remember?"

"Shit." She laughed and wiped the grime off her face, leaving wet trails where her tears ran down. "You know, I was in law school... should've learnt soap making instead."

"What's a law school?"

"It's like normal school but with more lying."

"Sounds shady if you ask me."

"Yeah. I thought I was so-o-o clever."

"You _are_ clever."

The compliment brought her smile back, but it made him question himself. He always went an extra mile to keep their relationship formal - not out of aggravation but out of respect. He'd never allowed himself the familiarity he was displaying now, lest she found his company bothersome or even dangerous. He made it clear that he wasn't that kind of guy. That she needn't be wary.

It was never easy, being professional. Not during long treks in the perilous wastes of Commonwealth, when they needed each other to stay alive. Not during the cold nights when they camped in abandoned buildings, one keeping watch while other slept. And what made it especially difficult was... her.

"You're a dumbass, Preston."

Fahire curled up on the floor and placed her head on his lap. Her hair, jet black and fluffy, lay soft under his fingers like a patch of cat fur. He never questioned what being hit at feels like. He knew now.

"There's a bed right there, General."

"I know. Can't be arsed."

"Maybe _I'm_ the one who wants to sleep."

"You never sleep."

"I'm pretty sure that's physically impo-"

His whole body became a tight coil as her hand covered his mouth. In the dim candlelight he could see the dark stars of her freckles and the spark of irony in her eyes.

"Shh. I'm trying to rest."

And thus he was defeated. And the General's face was innocent, even as he took off his coat and covered her up.

And he sat there like an idiot, cradling the woman he'd always known he loved but refused to acknowledge, and in his mind was not a faint idea of how to deal with his new feelings.

He was but a man, and he ruled naught.

"You're not the singing type, are you?" His coat shuffled, causing him to snap out of his thoughts.

"Errm, no. Sorry, General."

"That's weird... I heard you humming the other day."

"Must've been the wind."

The coat responded with a quiet chuckle. Preston sighed. He dug himself a hole and was now in no position to talk his way out of it.

"Remember, it's just for you."

He snuffed the candle. He didn't need it anymore.

His voice was broken and unsteady like a bad record. He'd never sung for another. Only for himself.

"Dearest Sarah, I'm compelled to write with fearful, shaking hands... just in case I never make it back..."

"I left our family weeks ago for battle stricken lands, and I fear I won't survive the next attack."

"I fled Rhode Island willingly to join the Union force, understanding I may never know my boys..."

"But this country's strength of government is in a great divorce, and for this I risk my life and all its joys."

She wasn't any better at it. But she was confident, and her confidence poured into his heart with the sound of battle - and the pining for peace and love.

He made sure she fell asleep even after her voice faded away; after long, deep breaths have replaced the sobbing; after all her features have relaxed and she started to snore quietly. Then he reached and traced her cheek with just his fingertips, awed and undone, with the kind of desperation only a soldier can know.

"Oh Fahire... my love for you is deathless."

_Oh, it's deathless._


End file.
